My Husband, The Hero
by Arianna18
Summary: Remember when Herc was placed on trial because a local man died trying to be hero? This is that man's widow's story.


MY HUSBAND, THE HERO  
by Arianna

My name is Galea, and I want to tell you the story of my husband, Kanzankis…

My husband wasn't a bad man, but he was unsettled. For as long as I'd known him, he hadn't seemed to know, really, what he wanted. Oh, he was a good farmer, a good provider. He cared for me and for our two children, but he was restless, as if he felt somehow that his life should count for something more than it did. I loved him, but I despaired of him, too; in the nights, when he'd find sleep elusive and would rise from our pallet and go outside, to stand in silence as he looked up at the stars; or, in the day, when I'd come upon him in the fields and he'd be somber and unsatisfied, though the crops were growing well. He seemed lost, somehow-as if he were searching for something but didn't quite know what it was.

He wanted something more…he wanted to _**be**_ something more. He wanted his life to count for something more than that of a simple farmer, with a wife and children, who would toil his life away and then vanish like the grass in winter, blown into eternity like a nameless leaf that falls from the tree in autumn.

I didn't understand him, and sometimes I would get impatient. Why couldn't we, the children and I, be enough for him? What was it that he wanted so poignantly that I could see the pain of it in his eyes? I tried so hard to make him see that he was a good man, a strong man who did his best. But he'd only mumble, 'Do I?' I wanted to hold him, comfort him, shake him…in truth, I had no idea how to soothe his restless soul.

When he finally found what it was that he was looking for, I didn't realize at first what it would mean.

He'd been away, to buy cuttings to expand our farm and to begin a small vineyard, when he and others were caught in a sudden spring flood. He told me about it afterwards, how frightening it had been, this sweep of torrential water that hurled down from the mountains, overflowing the banks of the riverbed, sweeping away everything in its path, including bridges, let alone travelers caught while fording what had appeared to be a safe and shallow stretch of water. As he described it, I could hear the panicked voices of terrified people in his words, in the tone of his voice, could almost see them in his eyes-the shrieks of children being torn from their parents, the screams of those parents as they floundered after their children, desperate to save them. The bellows and squeals of animals, the sharp, loud crack and snap of wood as carts and wagons were shattered by the power of the raging waters.

What terrible things he saw and heard.

And then his voice hushed, and he got a wondrous look on his face as he told me about one family who were clinging to the remains of their wagon which had gotten caught up with the broken limbs of trees in the mud of the river's bottom. A family like ours, he said…a man, his wife and their two small children. They pleaded for someone to help them, begged to be saved, but there was nothing anyone could do, or so everyone believed. All those safe on the bank were sick to their souls to think they were watching the last few, horrifying moments of life for that helpless family. I wept as he described it, the scene was so vivid in my mind.

But-out of nowhere, he told me, a strong man appeared and plunged into the raging torrent with nothing but a rope tied around his waist to hold him to the land. He struggled to stay upright, but was overpowered by the sweeping river, and so he had to swim, fighting the current. He might well have drowned in his attempt, but he made it to the trapped family. He had the children cling to his back, hanging onto his neck and he took the man in one arm and the woman in the other-and while that family clung to him, he managed somehow to stay afloat in that raging torrent while others hauled the rope, and dragged them to the shore. That family would have died but for that single man and his courage to defy the odds, and to risk his own life. He was a hero, pure and simple.

That man's name was Hercules.

It was a wonderful story and I thrilled to hear how that family had been saved. At the time, I had no premonition of how their fate would impact upon the future of our own family.

Our children loved to hear the story and my husband never tired of telling it. Of course, we'd all heard of Hercules, the demigod son of Zeus. He was a legend throughout the whole of Greece. It was exciting to think my husband, their father, had actually seen him.

After a time, my husband began to reflect on the story, and he said, one day, that he should do that, help people. I scoffed at him. How could he imagine that he could do what a demigod did? But he shook his head. There was another, he said. A mortal man who had also been there, the first to hold and haul in the rope, a blond man who was said to travel with Hercules and face all the same dangers, whether gods or monsters or simply raging floods. Though my husband couldn't remember that man's name, he argued that if one simple mortal man who possessed no special powers could stand for the same things that Hercules did, why couldn't another?

'I'm a big man,' he told me, and it was true. 'As big as Hercules, and I'm young, yet, and strong. There's nothing to stop me from helping people the way Hercules does.'

Well, I went from being thrilled with the story of how another family was saved to frightened and then angry. What did he mean? What about us, his family? Did he not care for us? My husband was not a man who was good with words. He couldn't explain the feelings that drove him to seek out more than our simple lives-the feelings that finally drove him to abandon us as he set out to 'help other people'. When we parted, we parted in anger.

Can you imagine my horror? My fury? He'd left me with two small children. He didn't even wait to plant the fields once they'd drained and dried enough that spring. He just-left. Oh, I suppose he knew my parents would help us, but they are elderly and infirm. My father still suffers from old war wounds and couldn't be expected to plant our fields as well as his own. Our neighbours couldn't understand why my husband just abandoned us, and they were too busy with their own fields, their own daily struggle for survival, to be of much help to us. I had no idea where he'd gone, or if he'd be back.

I think I hated him for a while. Hated him for walking away from our love as if it counted for nothing. Hated him for not caring enough for our children to provide for them. Hated him for leaving me not knowing if I would ever see him again, leaving me to depend upon the charity of my parents.

So, when Spencius, the Government Prosecutor, came to me and told me my husband had been killed while impersonating Hercules, I shrieked out in rage, and wailed for the pain of it. He was truly gone. Dead. I would never see him again. All because of his insane desire to emulate a man who was the son of a god! To be some kind of hero! Some hero he'd be now. What good can any man do when he's dead? I had _**loved**_ him! In truth, I loved him still. I felt as if I'd been ripped inside out and left gasping for the agony of it.

Kanzankis was dead. Dear gods. He was _**dead**_. I would never see him again. His children were fatherless.

Spencius told me I should seek justice-that a foul crime had been conducted-that Kanzankis had been lured away from his home and hearth, from the bosom of his family, by the lies and deception of the 'hero', Hercules. I cared nothing for his fancy words or the way his voice dripped with sarcasm when he spoke the demigod's name. But I _**wanted**_ revenge and retribution. I wanted someone to pay for the fact that I was now a widow with two small children to feed. Who better to pay than the one who had led us to this ruin?

So I agreed to testify when Spencius filed a formal complaint against Hercules and had him arrested. At the hearing, he told of how my husband had been killed when, while impersonating Hercules, he'd been helping to save two small children trapped in a mine cave-in while Hercules himself, and the children for that matter, survived. I felt there was no justice in the world. Why should my husband have died when everyone else had gotten out unscathed? It was madness. Hercules couldn't seem to understand why he was being charged-but surely he could have gotten my husband out, if he had tried? The demigod was charged with involuntary manslaughter, undermining the authority of the gods, sedition, denying the authority of the legitimate government and encouraging rebellion. I only cared that he lived and my husband had died while trying to emulate him. On the strength of my testimony, Hercules was bound over for trial in Athens-and I was glad!

In my righteous fury, I took my children to Athens, to observe the trial-to let them see it so that they might learn where such foolishness led, how dangerous it was to be caught up in fanciful daydreams, to lose track of reality. I took them every day of the trial to watch and listen.

On the first day, Spencius began by calling a simple farmer like my husband, who had lost his crops when he'd waited for Hercules to come and deal with a wild boar that was ravaging his fields. But he waited in vain as Hercules dealt with a war or disaster somewhere else. The man said Hercules couldn't be counted upon, that he should have seen to the beast himself, not waited and watched his livelihood ruined. But Spencius argued that that was the problem with heroes; that they pretended that they are there for you and encourage you to count upon them, when they can't be counted upon.

An old man was called next, someone who had lost all four sons in a war. He said they'd been inspired by Hercules' heroic rescue of Ajax, and that they had wanted to be heroes like Hercules. But they had all died in that war…not living long enough to become heroes, I suppose, as if it mattered. They were dead. Like Kanzankis was dead. Spencius argued that the inspiration of heroes was shallow and suspect, and that this poor man had lost his whole family because heroes set dangerous examples that led others to their deaths.

Hercules tried to object, but was silenced by the magistrate.

When we left the Hall of Justice that night, I felt drained. So much loss. So much death. For what? An ideal? I was convinced that Spencius was right. Hercules, and others like him, _**were**_ dangerous. It was important that this be recognized, that an example be made. It was hard to sit there and listen to those terrible stories, and I ached for my own husband, and I was certain I had done the right thing in helping Spencius to put Hercules on trial.

But, on the way to the inn, my son asked why that farmer hadn't just killed the wild boar, why he'd been so stupid as to wait for someone else to come and take care of his problems? 'Because he was led to believe that heroes solve all our problems,' I tried to explain. But my son just rolled his eyes and reminded me that Hercules had said he'd never met that farmer before so who had told the man he should just sit and wait? It was stupid, my son said. Stupid and lazy-and that wasn't Hercules' fault. And besides, my son groused, it wasn't as if Hercules lied and said he'd help and then didn't…he was somewhere else, trying to stop a war or something really important like that. Clearly, my son was influenced by the stories my husband had told him and was in awe of actually seeing the hero with his own eyes.

I remember looking at my son as he said expressed his contempt for the stupid farmer…and I remember thinking he was missing the point.

The next day, Spencius called a woman named Cassandra, supposedly from the mythical land of Atlantis, to testify. She swore Hercules had saved her life and had tried to save others as Atlantis was destroyed, but the Prosecutor made her sound insane, what with her visions about a mythical place and flying machines. But, in fairness, he pointed out that even if he credited her story, she'd only told us all that heroes take it upon themselves to decide who will live and who will die…and who had given them that right?

And there was another woman called, Kara, the wife of a mercenary, whose life Hercules had saved when the courts, in the demigod's view, had condemned him wrongly. Kara was grateful to have her husband home and he'd foresworn his earlier career. But Spencius underscored that regardless, her husband had killed countless men, had been rightfully convicted and Hercules had simply flaunted the law.

Hercules intervened again, and insisted upon being heard. I turned my head away. I didn't want to hear anything that he said. However, it was impossible not to hear him. He told us that we could say what we wanted about the choices he'd made in his life, but that none of his actions should ever take away from the choice Kanzankis had made. His voice was quaking as he chastised Spencius for failing to acknowledge that the most selfless act of all was to sacrifice one's own life for another. Hercules literally begged us not to take anything away from my husband's heroic choice and told us in no uncertain terms that Kanzankis deserved our honour and our respect.

I didn't want to listen. Honour? Respect? My husband was dead. Would honour till our fields and harvest our grain? Would respect feed our children? Selfless? What about my husband's responsibilities to me, his wife, and to our children? What right did Kanzankis have to be 'selfless'?

For all my anger, it seemed Hercules had moved the court and the focus of the trial became his sedition and Spencius argued he should be banished from Greece before he spread more turmoil and did more damage in undermining law and order. To prove his point, the Prosecutor called witness after witness, first Daedalus, the famous inventor. In response to the skillful questions posed to him, Daedalus revealed that Hercules had encouraged his son, Icarus, to pursue his dreams, telling the boy that 'anything was possible'. In taking that advice, Icarus fell to his death when he tried to fly too close to the sun. Gods, what a terrible thing!

Nevertheless, Daedalus remained staunchly loyal to Hercules, though I couldn't see how the old man could even speak the demigod's name, let alone call Hercules the best friend he'd ever had. So what if he'd helped the famous inventor to find his way after he'd lost himself in grief and anger and began to invent weapons that would hurt other people, by opening the inventor's eyes to the error of his ways. By the gods, as Spencius rightly pointed out, Daedalus had been sick with grief in the first place only because Hercules had encouraged his son to follow senseless, dangerous, dreams! It was the demigod's fault the boy was dead!

I could barely stand to listen to it all. How could people continue to revere and trust a man like that? How could they keep singing his praises? When we left the court that day, I was more convinced than ever that Spencius was right and the sooner Hercules was expelled from Greece, the better for everyone.

But-my daughter looked up at me that night and asked if it was true that her father was a hero? When I snapped that, yes, perhaps he was, she asked me why I was so angry. She looked at her brother and then asked, 'If we'd been the two kids trapped in that mine, wouldn't you have been glad if someone saved our lives?'

I gasped as I looked at her and I didn't know what to say. I started to shake and my throat got tight-and I thought I might be sick. 'Dad _**was**_ a hero,' my son said, and he sounded defiant. 'And I'm _**proud**_ of him!'

I could scarcely keep myself from weeping at his innocence.

But, when my daughter asked, her voice so soft and scared, if I hated her Daddy, I had to bite my lip to keep it from trembling and blink hard against the tears…tears I hadn't yet shed for Kanzankis. I'd raged and screamed, but I had not wept for him. Hated him? I'd _**loved**_ him, as I loved our children, more than anything on this earth.

What if it had been my children in that cave instead of the children of strangers? Would I not be thanking the gods every day for the rest of my life that some decent man had gone so far as to give his life to save them? Would I not be forever grateful to his memory and bless his soul?

But it wasn't some stranger who had died. It was the man I loved, who had left me because our life together hadn't been enough for him. And it hurt. Dear gods, it hurt.

I couldn't speak of it to my young ones that night. I shushed them as I tucked them under their blankets and told them to go to sleep. After blowing out the candle, I lay down beside them, and they curled close to me. I wrapped my arms around them and, while they slept, I wept.

Wept for the anger and the pain-for the sorrow of loss.

And for the very good man who'd died saving two young innocent lives…

The next day, we arrived in the court to discover that Hercules now had his own counsel, a woman called Dirce who was the princess of some distant place. She called Queen Melissa, who spoke of how Hercules had taught her through his own example to have compassion for wounded soldiers. She was vain and flighty, but her words were sincere, and she claimed Hercules was an inspiration to us all. After that, Dirce called the famous former King of Corinth, Jason of the Argonauts, stepfather to Hercules. He told us Hercules was his best friend, and had helped him turn his life around after he'd become a hopeless drunk because of problems in his personal life. He didn't have to elaborate. We all knew the story of what his ex-wife, Medea, had done to his wife and his children.

Spencius, in his cross-examination, focused more on the two voyages to fight for the Golden Fleece, specifically on how many men had died, arguing that heroes were only interested in their own glory, no matter how many lives were lost or families ruined. Jason tried to argue back, but Spencius shouted him down.

Perhaps I was listening differently, but I couldn't see how it was Hercules' fault personally that some had died on voyages they had all chosen to take. All who had gone, whether they survived or not, were heralded and celebrated and remembered as heroes. Not Hercules alone.

I felt very confused.

The most surprising event of the day, however, was when Spencius called Iolaus of Thebes as a witness for the prosecution! By then, we all knew this man was Hercules' best friend, his partner. He was the 'blond' that Kanzankis had noticed during the rescue of the family during the spring flood-the mortal who had inspired Kanzankis to think that if one man could risk all for what was right, if this one simple mortal man, not a demigod like Hercules, could devote his life to doing what was right, then why couldn't and shouldn't my husband do the same?

Iolaus tried to defend Hercules, citing all the lives the demigod had saved, even the number of times he'd saved Iolaus' own life. But Spencius cut in, demanding to know if Iolaus hadn't actually died and been brought back to life because of Hercules' relationship with the gods? When Iolaus admitted that was true, which was frankly truly astonishing, Spencius sarcastically said it was 'too bad' others, like Kanzankis, didn't know the demigod so well that he'd intervene for their lives.

Stung, both Iolaus and Hercules erupted, but Spencius lectured them both, saying there was no place for heroes in our modern civilized world, that they upset the order of things. He said men like Hercules are dangerous and then went so far as to blame Hercules for the deaths of his own family because he was so arrogant as to challenge the gods and refuse to seek their help. They were shouting at one another, and I heard Hercules' voice crack when he cried that he had _**begged**_ Zeus…but Spencius wasn't listening and shouted again that Hercules' heroic behaviour had cost his family their lives.

It was shocking. And terrible. The entire court went silent. Hercules looked like his heart had been ripped from his chest, the pain of Spencius' foul accusations etched in his face…haunting his eyes.

It was too much.

I realized then that Spencius didn't care about Kanzankis or justice. He wasn't listening to anything any of the witnesses had to say because he didn't care. Hercules upset 'the order of things' in Spencius' world, and that was the demigod's only crime. To charge a man for having brought about the deaths of his own family simply because he risked his life to help others, to fail to hear him when he called out that he'd _**begged**_ his father, _**the King of the Gods, and had not been heard**_…it was monstrous. I was sickened by it.

And I was suddenly very ashamed to have ever been a part of this travesty of so-called justice.

I knew what my husband, a man of so few words, would have said…just before he punched the Government Prosecutor's lights out.

My children were so confused by it all. They kept asking if Spencius thought their father was a bad man for having saved those children, because the Prosecutor kept saying all heroes were bad and dangerous. It didn't make sense to them that someone could be bad for saving someone else's life. I had to admit to them that it didn't make any kind of sense to me either. I assured them that their father had been a good man-and so was Hercules.

But, as I spent another sleepless night, I couldn't stop seeing the look of utter sick horror and despair on the demigod's face as the day had ended. And I knew Spencius' foul words and accusations had broken through his confidence and wounded his soul. The poor man obviously loved his murdered family and was still heartbroken about their deaths, though they had died years ago. And he obviously harboured some private, deeply held guilt that they'd died because of who he was. But it wasn't because he was a hero that Hera had killed them, or even because he might defy her, if he did. I didn't know anything about that. But everyone knew that Hera was jealous of Zeus' paramours and she had hated Hercules since the day he was born, poor innocent babe. His family had not deserved to be annihilated like that and he was an entirely innocent victim of a monstrous crime…yet he'd been made to feel guilty.

I found myself weeping again that night, but not for myself. I wept for my own guilt and grief to have been the tool by which such deplorable and sickening accusations had been made against someone who, by all accounts, was selfless, brave and compassionate. Someone who had borne more hurt than I, for I still had my children.

The next day, Spencius ranted at the court.

Oh, he was articulate, certainly, and seemed to believe heartily in his own convictions. But he argued arrogantly that while Hercules and heroes like him might mean well, that what Hercules does, what he stands for, is dangerous. And Spencius stressed that people died, as my husband or Icarus or those men on the voyages to fight for the Golden Fleece had died, because Hercules encouraged people to reach beyond their abilities, entreating them to ignore the gods. Hercules, he said, disrupted the perfect order of things; and he called on us to consider the implications of that for our future generations if heroes continued to advocate that people should follow their hearts and do what is right. Spencius charged that such behaviour was treasonous, liable to corrupt our youth and put our city states in peril. Patronizingly, he said we could never bring back those who had already died but, by banishing Hercules from Greece, we could make certain such deaths never happened again.

Excuse me? How was trying to better oneself wrong? Why shouldn't people be motivated by what they thought was right? Are we all to be blind followers of rules made by others? What is so sacred about our city states? Wasn't Spencius simply arguing now for his own right to dictate, as a leading member of the 'order of things', how others should behave?

I shook my head, questions whirling in my mind. But there was no time to think.

Hercules stood to cut Spencius off, having heard enough. The court was so very quiet as he called out, his voice ringing with honest sincerity as he accepted all of Spencius' charges. Yes, he had challenged the gods who don't help mortals but only interfere in their lives. Yes, he had bent the law to uphold its spirit if not its letter. Yes, he had encouraged others to be everything they are capable of being. And if that was worthy of banishment, then he was guilty. But he went on to say that there was something worthy in being a hero who is not afraid to risk their own life for another, and that sometimes that risk means losing one's life. But that choice, taking that risk to make that higher moral stand, he argued, is what separates us from the animals and the gods themselves. If that made him guilty, he said, then he was proud of it; proud of having done what was right. If that meant he should be banished, then they should take him and be done with it.

I could see by the self-satisfied, eminently gratified expression on Spencius' face that he thought in that moment that he had triumphed.

But, suddenly, Iolaus' voice echoed in the great hall as he strode forward. 'NO!' he cried out. 'I'm Hercules. I think like him. I try to act like him. If what he's doing is wrong, then banish me, too! Take me!'

And Jason strode forth, shouting, 'I am Hercules, take me!'

Other voices cried out, Cassandra and Daedalus, Kara and Queen Melissa, one after another, they strode forward to stand by Hercules, to stand for what he stood for. And I knew what I had to do, what was _**right**_ to do. 'I am Hercules,' my husband had said-and I could do no less, though I knew I could never be brave enough to truly be worthy of the name and so I felt shy as I stepped forward.

"I am Hercules," I said simply but clearly, as I moved through the crowd around him to stand at his side.

The demigod looked astonished by all the support that was being given to him, having been willing to stand alone. He looked especially moved and oddly humble when I took my place beside him.

Spencius was appalled by the lack of order in the court and turned to the magistrate who shook his head and waved off the objection. 'I'd only have to banish myself,' he said as he stood. 'I am Hercules! Case dismissed.'

There was an atmosphere of rejoicing, of a great wrong having been righted, as people cheered and hugged one another.

I slipped away to quietly gather my children and leave. It was time for us to go home. But the demigod must have noticed, for Hercules followed us out, and he thanked me for having stood on his behalf. I shook my head, and told him that it was I who had to thank him. I told him I was sorry, that I should never have been a party to what had happened, that he and his friends were right. And, then, I told him that my husband, Kanzankis, had been lost and misguided for so much of his life, but that he had changed because of Hercules. And he had died a hero.

Because of Hercules, my children had two heroes to look up to-him and their father.

But I also told him that the trial had proven one thing…there wasn't enough of him to go around. He just laughed modestly and shook his head. He and Iolaus had to leave immediately to try to avert yet another war, and Iolaus was calling him away. He wished us well-and then they were gone. Off to do what heroes do. And though Hercules likely wouldn't thank me for it, I pray to the gods to protect them because we need heroes like them to show us the potential for greatness in ourselves.

I miss my husband. But I'm no longer angry, and I no longer feel he abandoned me. It wasn't that he didn't love us-it was simply that he knew that somewhere, others had greater need of him than we did. And he was right. Those children would have died had not Kanzankis been there to save their lives.

I honour my husband's memory. Kanzankis was a good man. I respect him and I am very proud of him.

I wanted you to know his story.

Finis


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